


a face meant for radio

by patho (ghostsoldier)



Category: Far Cry 4
Genre: Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, Dorks in Love, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5947708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/patho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Radio Free Kyrat's broadcast station is <i>thoroughly</i> defiled, and two idiots get a clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a face meant for radio

**Author's Note:**

> The alternate title of this fic is, "I Started Writing This As A Joke But Then Became Emotionally Invested," which, let's be honest, is the alternate title for half the shit I write.

So it turns out Ajay Ghale, son of the great and powerful Mohan Ghale, a one-man army unto himself and the potential savior of their entire country, is a _massive fucking dork_.

It’s...weird. Rabi’s not sure if it’s weird in a good way, or weird in a _weird_ way. The guy single-handedly liberated half the bell towers in Kyrat and is terrifyingly competent when it comes to _murdering the fuck out of people_ , yet Rabi’s seen him trip over his own feet at least four times and it turns out he snorts when he laughs.

Like, what the fuck is that? How is that even remotely okay? Ajay Ghale’s supposed to be this awesome superman who farts testosterone and bench-presses Royal Army soldiers before breakfast, not some weedy fucking nerd who made a total ass of himself the one time Rabi put him on the radio. It’s the sort of thing that makes him want to grab Ajay by the shoulders and shake him, as if that will magically make Ajay fit the shape he keeps describing in his broadcasts.

The man in question’s currently sitting in the dark little studio’s only other chair, feet up on the desk while he drinks a beer and ignores the occasional clatter of distant gunfire. How he manages to ignore it Rabi has no idea, because he flinches every time. He supposes that’s what being an all-around badass will do to a guy.

Except Ajay’s not a badass. He’s a total goober nerd.

...a total goober nerd who’s probably shot and killed more people than Rabi’s ever met in his entire life, so maybe Ajay’s still a bit of a badass too.

“--crash on your floor or something and head out in the morning, if that’s okay with you?” Ajay’s saying. His hair’s still wet from his stint in the camp shower Rabi rigged up out back, water droplets making dark spots on the shoulders of his thin t-shirt. Rabi’s missed like ninety-five percent of what he just said because he was too busy staring at the multicolored bruises decorating Ajay’s forearms.

He says, “Huh?”

“Or not, I guess.” Ajay sounds bummed, like Rabi just kicked his hypothetical dog. “I get that it’s an imposition or whatever every time I drop in, but I thought--”

Rabi squints at him and takes a hit of his own beer, using the pause as an excuse to try to puzzle out the bits of conversation he’d missed. Unfortunately, his mind’s still stuck on Ajay’s forearms, and further probing of his own subconscious reveals an image of Ajay’s back when his shirt was off earlier. _So_ not helpful. “What the fuck are you talking about, man?”

“This!” Ajay gestures wildly with the bottle and nearly goes over backward in the chair for his efforts. “Me! Showing up at random and, I don’t know, using your shower and drinking your beer and stuff.”

“Man, you are more than welcome to use that shower anytime you like,” Rabi says with complete and utter sincerity. “No offense, but you fucking _stink_ every time you blow in here. Not that I’m judging! Not that I’m judging!” he adds quickly, holding up his hands palms-out when Ajay’s expression shifts from _earnest and kinda sad_ to _pretty fucking pissed_ in like three seconds flat. “I just figured being the savior of Kyrat didn’t leave you with much time for, you know, hygiene. Crawling through the underbrush all dirty and sweaty, covered with the blood of your enemies--”

To his immense relief, Ajay just laughs instead of introducing his knuckles to Rabi’s face. There’s no snort this time, but it’s a dweeby laugh just the same, small and hoarse and honest. It makes something warm and fuzzy build a little nest behind Rabi’s sternum.

“Okay, okay,” Ajay says, “I see your point. Although I still think it’s bizarre you’re so concerned with my personal hygiene, like...a bidet? Seriously? Of all the things in the world to ask me, you gotta make sure my _asshole_ is clean?”

Correction: Ajay Ghale is a total goober nerd, and also the world’s biggest shit.

“Fuck you, man!” Rabi says. “I was drunk, okay?”

He...totally wasn’t, but better Ajay think he’s a shitty drunk than a (now-reformed (no seriously (no, _seriously_ ))) fanboy who doesn’t know when to shut his fucking mouth.

“You were not,” Ajay says. The laughter’s gone but the grin isn’t, and Rabi supposes that makes up for him disappointing Rabi in _every single conceivable way_. “I’ve seen you when you’re drunk. You geek out a bunch and try to explain your broadcast setup to me in words I don’t understand, and then you whine for a while about how you never get laid and eventually fall asleep.”

Rabi stares at him. Finally, he says, “That is so not what I do.”

“It so is.” Ajay takes another long pull of his beer and sets the bottle on Rabi’s desk with a thump. “It’s cool, though. I mean, I like it. Reminds me of a guy I used to work with, total AV club tech nerd. He was super into MMOs and stuff, and used to build the most amazing shit out of old VCRs and…”

He trails off, his smile fading, and Rabi’s stomach sinks. When Ajay gets like this, it’s suddenly all-too-apparent he isn’t some larger-than-life hero at all -- he’s just a man, flesh and blood and fragile as anyone else, a man who ended up in the wrong place at a weird time with a _really_ weird skillset.

Lonely, too, if the way he keeps showing up at the studio is any indication.

“Listen man,” Rabi says quickly, “you really gotta cut it out with this emo bullshit, all right? You’re starting to do major damage to the serious case of hero worship I had going. Don’t make me turn to fucking _Sabal_ , okay? Talk about no fun allowed. The man’s more straight-edge than a fucking ruler.”

Ajay utters a small, startled bark of laughter and rubs at the back of his neck. “Sabal’s okay,” he says, which is clearly Ajay-speak for, _he’s a giant wet blanket but I’m way too nice to say so_. “He really seems to care about things, which is cool.”

“Dammit, see? That’s what I’m talking about! Your coolness bar is set way, way too low.” Rabi leans across the desk and prods Ajay hard in the shoulder. “You are _harshing my buzz_ , Ghale. You’re ruining the image. What the fuck am I supposed to tell my listeners, huh? You keep pulling this shit and soon people are going to start thinking you watch cat videos on YouTube and cry over baby animals.”

“I like cat videos,” Ajay says mildly. He shoots Rabi a surprisingly sly grin. “And I’d watch it with the shit-talk about my coolness bar. I have, in my darker moments, thought you were cool too.”

The part of Rabi’s brain that’s still a geeky fanboy douche promptly sits up and shrieks with giddy joy. The rest of him just blurts, “Shit, man. No homo.”

“Seriously?” Ajay says. To his credit, he doesn’t look particularly angry, or even particularly annoyed. Mostly he just looks incredulous, and also a little amused. “Dude, you once spent a good five minutes outlining proper butt hygiene to me over the radio, and the first time we met you literally wouldn’t shut up about my shoulders. You keep staring at my _arms_ , man. I’m pretty sure we’re talking at least a little homo.”

“You’re a walking hospital advert from the neck down,” Rabi snaps. “Sue me for finding it a little distracting, all right? It doesn’t mean I want to suck your dick.”

Ajay doesn’t even blink at that. No wonder the Royal Army’s got a hate boner for the guy -- when he wants to be, he is stone fucking cold.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Ajay says.

 _Ha fucking ha_ , Rabi thinks sourly, _hilarious_ , and then Ajay cocks his head to the side and the corner of his mouth tugs up, and he says, far more quietly, “I could do you, though. If you wanted.”

What.

Rabi tries to speak, and manages to make a sound that halfway approximates that of a punctured tire leaking air. Some part of him -- namely, the part that’s not picturing what Ajay would look like kneeling between his legs -- is marveling over the fact that _Ajay Ghale_ of all people managed to render him speechless.

The rest of him is thinking about Ajay’s mouth wrapped around his dick, and it’s been way too long since he got laid because this wasn’t what he signed up for at all.

“The way I figure,” Ajay says, like casual blowjob offers between friends are the most normal thing in the world, “it’s a win-win situation for you, right?” His odd half-smile isn’t reaching his eyes anymore. “I guess you could always just close your eyes and pretend I’m a girl.”

 _Whoa_.

There’s something brittle in Ajay’s voice, something terribly fragile, and it occurs to Rabi again that Ajay really is just a _guy_ , probably about his age, far from home and with the hopes of an entire country weighing on his shoulders. Ajay’s never struck him as the sort to just randomly jump into bed with someone for the hell of it, so that means he must actually like Rabi -- _like_ -like him -- to offer this in the first place.

It makes the whole “close your eyes and pretend I’m a girl” thing fucked up on like nine thousand different levels. Rabi may not have a whole lot of experience in these matters, but he knows that much.

He says, slowly, “Ajay, man--”

“No, you know what, forget it.” Ajay sits back and rakes a hand through his hair, leaving it even messier than it was before. The last trace of his smile has long since departed for greener pastures. “I’m sorry I said anything. Just forget it. It’s fine if you’re not into guys, and I shouldn’t have...I shouldn’t have said anything.”

When he finally makes eye contact, there’s nothing in his expression but sad and faintly desperate hope. “We’re still cool, right?”

“You were serious,” Rabi says.

“C’mon, dude, don’t do this.” Ajay sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. “We can have the ‘Ajay’s a great big gaylord and Banashur’s got a stick up his butt about it’ conversation another day, all right? I already said I was sorry. Just leave it.”

“No, shut up, I’m just trying to figure things out here. You were _actually_ going to get on your knees, right here in the studio, right now, concrete floors be damned, and _actually_ suck me off. That’s...that’s a thing that would’ve happened.”

“Yup,” Ajay says. He drains his beer and sets the bottle down with a loud _thunk_. The quiet hope in his expression has soured into something far wearier. “Sure would’ve. Now are you gonna let it go already, or do you plan to rag on me about it until the end of fucking time?”

Rabi clears his throat and shifts in his chair. Pulls off his sunglasses, sets them aside, picks them up again and folds them. Thinks about Ajay’s sly grin as he’d made the initial offer, the way it faded and died after, the sadness now leaking into the edges of his voice. Rabi drums his fingers on the paper-strewn desk and wills his voice steady.

“You still, uh--” He chews on his lower lip. “Do you still wanna?”

Prays to every god he can think of that Ajay won’t make him clarify .

Ajay just blinks a few times, looking mildly stunned. “For real? You actually want me to?”

“Only if _you_ want to,” Rabi stammers, and nearly jumps out of his skin when Ajay manages to move from his own chair to the floor at Rabi’s feet in less time than it takes him to finish the sentence. “Holy fuck, man, warn a guy before you do that! I almost shit myself.”

“For someone who claims he doesn’t have an ass fetish, you sure do talk about shit a lot,” Ajay says. He sounds borderline cheerful, and he looks...well. He looks happy, genuinely fucking happy, like it’s making his day that Rabi agreed to let him get his mouth on his dick, and Rabi honestly can’t decide if that’s really sad or really flattering.

Both, he decides. It’s both.

It’s also kind of sweet, damn it all to hell.

“I never said I didn’t have an ass fetish,” Rabi says faintly, because he doesn’t want to think about how happiness is a look that suits Ajay pretty well, all things considered. Also, Ajay’s touching his _thighs_ , and that’s making it hard to think about anything at all.

“Huh,” Ajay says thoughtfully. His hands slide up to Rabi’s belt, making quick work of the buckle. “So you _do_ have an ass fetish. Good to know.”

“I never -- I never said that either!”

The belt buckle defeated, Ajay moves on to the fastenings of Rabi’s cargo pants. One button, two buttons, zipper. _Close your eyes and pretend I’m a girl_. As if such a thing was even fucking possible. He can’t stop staring: Ajay’s bitten nails and bruised knuckles, the stubble on his jaw, the dark smudge of his eyelashes. Ajay is very much a dude, and apparently his dick’s totally on board with that.

It’s starting to put all of his idle daydreams about Ajay rescuing him from Royal Army soldiers into perspective. Filthy, _filthy_ perspective. The one where Ajay dragged him out of a burning building, stripped off his shirt, and gave him mouth-to-mouth definitely comes to mind.

Wait. Mouth-to-mouth.

“Hang on, hang on,” Rabi blurts. Bites back a nervous laugh when Ajay’s hands go still and a worry line appears between his eyebrows.

“Everything okay?”

“No, everything’s great! Everything’s super great, it’s just…” Rabi tries very hard not to pay attention to how _close_ Ajay’s hands are to his dick. “Shouldn’t we kiss first?”

“You...want to kiss me.” The carefully neutral expression on Ajay’s face is impossible to read, but there’s a faint uptick in his voice that turns the statement into a faintly baffled question.

“Yeah?” Rabi says. _Wow, nice, way to sound sure of yourself!_ “I mean. Yeah. Sure. I do.”

Ajay doesn’t look convinced, which is utterly stupid considering the evidence of Rabi’s overall enthusiasm for the proceedings is _right there_. There’s nothing remotely subtle about a hard-on. There’s no fucking way Ajay hasn’t noticed it.

“Look,” Rabi says, exasperated, “I’m new to this whole sordid gay sex thing, all right? In my experience, there’s kissing first, then a handjob, then some awkward fucking in the dark where I come too soon and spend a lot of time apologizing. There’s maybe oral sex at some point _if I’m lucky_. This skipping straight to the blowjobs thing has me off my game, man. Throw me a fucking bone here.”

He realizes the pun a half-second too late, and from the barely suppressed twitch of Ajay’s lips and the way his eyes crinkle it’s pretty fucking obvious he noticed it too. Much to Rabi’s relief, at least one of their many gods appears to be taking pity on him; instead of cracking a terrible joke about boners that Rabi probably deserves, Ajay simply straightens, his gaze flicking to Rabi’s mouth when he nervously wets his lower lip. When their eyes meet again, there’s no mistaking the heat in Ajay’s expression.

 _Holy shit_ , Rabi thinks faintly. Ajay really, seriously wants all this. It’s a little mind-blowing, actually, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask how long Ajay’s been thinking about it when Ajay tilts his head and leans in, and the question fizzles out of existence.

What starts off as a dry, sweetly chaste press of Ajay’s lips rapidly escalates into something a lot more carnal. Rabi’s not entirely sure which of them is to blame, but he has a sneaking suspicion he was the one who introduced tongues into the equation.

Not that it matters. The whole thing is still Ajay’s fault, what with his cheekbones and his arms and his stupid nerdy laugh, his hopeful blowjob offers and the way he has the unremitting gall to seem genuinely appreciative of Rabi’s company. The fucking _nerve_ of the guy, seriously.

Ajay kisses like he’s got all the time in the world, wet and sweet and slow. Playful, almost. He keeps his hands to himself until Rabi makes an urgent noise and returns the kiss in kind, and abruptly Ajay’s touch becomes purposeful. Drag of his palms up Rabi’s thighs, quick dip of his fingers beneath the hem of Rabi's t-shirt. The faint brush of fingers against Rabi’s stomach is unbearably ticklish, and Rabi twitches back with a small, startled gasp.

“Sorry,” Ajay murmurs, not sounding remotely sorry at all. His touch firms, enough that Rabi can feel his hands shaking a little, and then the touch slides south. Ajay’s hands may be shaking, but there’s nothing remotely hesitant about the way he molds his palm over Rabi's erection.

Heat roars up Rabi’s spine like a wildfire. Ajay Ghale, son of the great Mohan Ghale, nerdlord supreme and one-man army unto himself, is _touching Rabi’s dick_.

He’s going to explode. Or spontaneously combust. Or something. There’s no way he’s getting out of this encounter alive, he knows that much.

And then Ajay is fumbling _into_ his shorts, and Rabi quickly amends his _Death By Ajay_ list to include “a fucking heart attack, holy _shit_.” Ajay’s hands are a little on the rough side, but it’s a good rough, it’s the sort of rough that comes from kicking ass and taking names instead of--

His thoughts splinter into a thousand pieces when Ajay rubs his palm over the head of his dick -- or _smears_ it, rather, because apparently makeouts really do it for him -- and mutters, “Fuck, that’s hot” into the kiss.

“I’m not hot, _you’re_ hot,” is what Rabi means to say, but Ajay wraps those rough, perfect fingers around him and strokes, and all that comes out is a low, choked-off whimper.

Ajay makes a small, urgent noise and bites Rabi’s lower lip. Does it again when Rabi groans, kisses him with a hunger that’s both honest and startling. Rabi feels like he should be doing something with his hands -- touching Ajay back might be a good start -- but his fingers are locked in a death grip on the arms of the chair. He’s not sure he could move if someone held a gun to his head. He settles on returning the kiss with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, which isn’t the least bit difficult since kissing Ajay is easily at the top of his _Best Things I’ve Done In My Entire Life_ list, and not embarrassing himself too much, which is a lot more difficult seeing as he’s completely lost control over his own vocal cords.

Oh well. You win some, you lose some.

“You like that?” Ajay mumbles the words against Rabi’s mouth, like he can’t bear to stop kissing him even as he’s trying to talk. The smile in his voice is absolutely unmistakeable.

“Fuck _yes_ ,” Rabi gasps. It comes out a lot more desperate than he intends.

Ajay pulls back. His eyes are bright and there’s color high on his cheeks, all wet hair and a shy, crooked smile. “You’re gonna like this, then,” he says. Breathless and eager and happy, pressing in for one last kiss, fast and hard like he can’t quite help himself. “Promise.”

And before Rabi can do much more than nod jerkily, Ajay settles back on his heels and bends down and-- _maa chikney_ , Banashur help him, just swallows him right down easy as you please, slow and wet with a wicked curl of his tongue, like it’s the simplest fucking thing in the world.

“Holy shit,” Rabi whispers. He wasn’t joking when he said he mostly had sex in the dark -- being the host of an illegal underground radio show hasn’t exactly been the most reliable path to getting laid, and he’s always felt a little more sure of himself when his partners couldn’t really see him all that well.

But this, though. This is just _obscene_. Ajay’s hollowed cheeks and the hot slide of his mouth, his amused little glance when he does something indescribably good with his tongue and Rabi outright moans. It’s completely fucking unfair.

His chest tightens when Ajay reaches up, carefully peels Rabi’s right hand free from the arm of the chair, and guides it into his hair. _Oh. Oh wow._ Ajay groans when he gives an experimental tug, and Rabi slides his other hand into Ajay’s hair too, rocks his hips _up_ , ever so slightly, chasing the toe-curling rhythm Ajay’s already established. Ajay just groans again and then _speeds up, oh holy fucking shit_ , this won’t last long at all if he keeps that up.

“Ajay.” His voice cracks; it’s excruciating how wrecked he sounds already. When Ajay shows no sign of acknowledgement, he pulls on his hair again. “ _Ajay_. Hold up.”

Ajay makes a frustrated noise but pulls off, and Rabi sorta wishes he had a camera because Ajay’s spit-slick lips and messy hair are easily going to be spank fodder for the next twenty-odd years of his life.

“What?” Ajay says. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and...he’s panting, fuck, why is that hot, that’s not the kind of thing that should be hot. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s just--” Rabi scrubs his hands over his face, feeling shaky and desperately turned on and nervous all at once. “You keep that up, I’m going to come, and I don’t want…”

There’s absolutely no way to finish that sentence in a way that won’t make him sound completely pathetic. _I don’t want it to be over that soon. I don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t want you to think I’m a loser_ . He’s acutely aware of his erection, hanging out all friendly-like and hopeful of resuming Ajay’s acquaintance, ridiculous and just kinda... _there_. He could try to cover it up, he supposes, but it’s not like either of them are just going to forget about it or anything.

Fuck, this is awkward. Why did he think this was a good idea?

To Rabi’s immense surprise, Ajay visibly relaxes, a spark of relief flickering in his eyes. He hadn’t realized Ajay was so tense in the first place.

“Dude,” Ajay says. “You coming is kind of the point.” His voice is gentle, and his smile is gentle, and the hands resting on Rabi’s thighs are gentle too, but his eyes are anything but. If Ajay keeps looking at him like that, Rabi’s going to up and spontaneously combust.

He says, “What?”

Ajay’s mouth crooks up on one side. “You have had sex before, right? I mean, you talk about it on the radio all the time so I just assumed--”

“Oh, shut up,” Rabi grumbles. He wonders, vaguely, if there’s a polite way to tell Ajay to quit giving him shit and get back to sucking his dick already, because he’s not sure they’re at a point where he can handle talking about feelings. Like, say, the fact that he has them. “I’ve had sex before, okay, I j-just-- oh _fuck_ , fuck fuck _fuck_.”

Considering where Ajay’s mouth is and what it’s doing, Rabi has no fucking idea how he’s managing to convey an aura of complete and utter innocence. Ajay Ghale: Man of Incredibly Surprising Talents. Rabi whimpers a little when he pulls away.

“You’re cool if I keep going?” Ajay says. He’s forgone his maddeningly light strokes of before for something a lot more firm, and his grin widens when Rabi shudders and all but slides out of the chair. “Because if there’s anything else you wanna bring up, now’s probably the time.”

“No,” Rabi says faintly, “no, I think I’m good.”  

This time, it doesn’t take any prompting at all for Rabi to tangle his hands in Ajay’s hair. Ajay’s soft, muffled noises of encouragement feel amazing on his dick; even more amazing is his low, drawn-out groan when Rabi forgets himself and tries to thrust up into his mouth. Rabi stammers something approximating an apology and then instantly ruins it by doing the exact same thing again, but Ajay’s not exactly complaining, so…

It’s sweet and sloppy and perfect, easily the best thing to happen to him in years. The slick sounds of Ajay’s mouth on him, the unsteady harshness of his own breathing, the creak of the chair every time his hips snap forward of their own accord. He’s trying to curl himself around Ajay, trying to get _closer_ ; he scrabbles briefly at Ajay’s shoulders before he gives up and gets a good grip on his hair again, and the increasingly filthy curses he’d been muttering give way to, embarrassingly, Ajay’s name.

He tries to warn Ajay before he comes. He really and truly does. He gets about as far as, “ _Fuck_ , Ajay, gonna--” before Ajay makes a low, urgent sound deep in his throat and swallows him right down to the root, and then it’s over, all of Rabi’s good intentions blasted away in a hot, sticky rush.

 _Whoops_ , he thinks, and bites back a slightly hysterical giggle.

He slides down in the chair, giddy and shivery and boneless. Ajay kisses his stomach, then does it again when Rabi says, “ _guh_ ,” and shudders all over. Ajay’s lips are wet and it’s kind of unbearably ticklish, and Rabi would pay him at least a million rupees to _never ever stop_.

“Holy shit.” His voice cracks. Under any other circumstances he would be mortified, but he’s feeling far too good to care right now. “That was…”

“Mm,” Ajay says. He seems to be in absolutely no hurry to stop what he’s doing, and Rabi is A-OK with that.

“No, seriously.” Rabi beams up at the low, cracked ceiling. “I’m in love, man. Speechless. I can’t even describe it. You broke my brain by way of my dick and it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Ajay’s chuckle is more breath than laugh, and he drops his forehead to Rabi’s thigh. “You sure are talking a lot for a guy who’s speechless,” he says.

“What can I say? I’m special.” He runs his fingers through Ajay’s hair, because it’s right there and because he can. He’s allowed. He’s got privileges. When he scrapes his nails over Ajay’s scalp and then tugs, Ajay utters a low hiccup of a groan and pushes his forehead hard into Rabi’s leg.

It occurs to Rabi at this point that he has no idea where Ajay’s hands are. Also, Ajay’s breathing has sped up to a noticeable degree.

“Holy shit,” Rabi says, lifting his head so he can peer down to where Ajay’s still kneeling. “Are you jerking off?”

He is. He totally is. This is the best day of Rabi’s _life_.

The sound Ajay makes is half-laugh, half-groan. It’s not really a sexy groan, more a “why in the love of Banashur are you pointing this out?” groan, but Rabi doesn’t really care. The circumstances are more than enough to make it sexy. The mere fact that Ajay’s _jerking off_ makes it sexy. Shit, Ajay could be reading out technical diagrams in a completely monotone voice, and it would be sexy.

“People who come in my mouth aren’t allowed to judge what gets me off,” Ajay says against Rabi’s thigh, and at the same time Rabi says, “So, uh. What’re you thinking about?”

There’s a long, faintly embarrassed silence. Ajay lifts his head. “Is that a trick question?”

“Uh. No?”

“C’mon, man. What do you _think_ I’m thinking about?” Ajay’s cheeks and neck are flushed a deep red, and he looks equal parts mortified and utterly turned on. Unbidden, Rabi’s gaze drops to the open vee of Ajay’s jeans, where his fingers are still curled around his--

 _Well_.

“Tell me,” Rabi says before his brain has a chance to catch up. His mouth is so dry with giddy want that he can barely get the words out, but it’s worth it for the slide of fabric over Ajay’s stomach as he draws a shaky gulp of air, for the twitch of Ajay’s fingers and the way his thighs spread, ever so slightly, under the heat of Rabi’s gaze. Rabi’s not too proud to beg, he’s really and truly not. “Tell me what you were thinking about.”

He glances up just in time to see Ajay duck his head, like eye contact is just a little too much for him right now.

“Your mouth,” Ajay says quietly. He is, impossibly, even more red than he was a moment ago. Even his _ears_ have gone a dull shade of brick.

Rabi desperately wants to kiss him.

“My…?”

“I...I thought about it when I listened to you on the radio sometimes,” Ajay says, in the slightly strained tones of someone who wants to say a _lot_ more but isn’t sure how well it will be received. His hand is moving again. “About your, um, your _mouth_ , what it would feel like if you--”

“Holy shit, yeah, okay,” Rabi blurts. It maybe comes out a little too fast, because Ajay shakes himself and blinks up at him, looking confused.

“What?”

“ _That_ ,” Rabi says. He’s all but tripping over himself in his haste to get the words out. “Your dick, my mouth, sounds like a party. Let’s go.”

Ajay’s brow furrows. “Have you ever actually gone down on a guy before?”

“Hey, don’t impugn my dick-sucking abilities!” Rabi says, weirdly stung. “For all you know, I could be the dick-sucking champion of Kyrat.”

A faint smile appears on Ajay’s lips. “Pretty sure I’ve already claimed the title there,” he says, a trifle smugly, “if all that shit you were saying when you came in my mouth was any indication.”

Rabi’s face goes hot. He’s all-too-aware of the fact that he still hasn’t tucked himself back into his shorts, and with the way this conversation is going he doubts it will be long before he’s ready for round two. Maybe in round two, they’ll be _naked_.

Or maybe that’s too forward. Is that too forward? Ajay offering to suck his dick in the first place seemed pretty forward, so…

“Runner up, then,” Rabi says. “I’ll wear a tiara and everything, prom dress, whatever, just quit trying to talk me out of it already and _get the fuck up here_.”

Ajay’s mouth snaps shut. For a brief moment, he still looks uncertain, and Rabi’s not really sure what he’ll do if Ajay doesn’t go for it. Respect the guy’s choice, _obviously_ \-- he’s not that much of an asshole -- but it’s not like he’s ever done this sort of thing with a guy before. Maybe Ajay thinks he’d be shit at it. Maybe he is shit at it! That’s the problem, he doesn’t know, maybe--

“It’s cool if you’d rather not,” he adds in a far quieter voice. He rubs his suddenly damp palms against the tops of his thighs, feeling a lot shakier than he did a moment ago. “I mean, I’d get it. But maybe I could still watch you? While you--”

Something flickers in Ajay’s expression. The hesitance of earlier is gone, and he pushes to his feet with a good deal more grace than Rabi would’ve managed under similar circumstances. He glances at the battered metal desk as if checking to make sure there are no important maps or papers there, and then leans back against it, bracing himself on his palms. He says, a trifle nervously, “This okay?”

Rabi’s staring again. He drags his eyes back up to Ajay’s face and grins shakily at him. “Yeah,” he says. Holy shit, he’s actually going to do this. “Sure, yeah, that’s perfect.”

Ajay’s been kind of weird about eye contact, so Rabi half-expects him to close his eyes or duck his head or look away when he reaches for him. Instead, he holds Rabi’s gaze until Rabi’s fingers are wrapped around him, at which point his expression of mildly anxious arousal melts into something quiet and startled and almost painfully open.

Rabi gives him an experimental stroke, and Ajay utters a tiny broken sound. His throat bobs as he swallows, his chest hitching as he tries to catch his breath. He feels surprisingly nice in Rabi’s hand, all hot skin and insistent flesh, wetness beneath his thumb. He tightens his grip and Ajay groans. His eyelashes cast faint shadows on his cheekbones when his eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck,” he says unsteadily. “Please, Rabi, can you--” and his voice splinters into a small, shocked, “... _oh,_ ” as Rabi takes a deep breath, wets his lips, and leans in.

It is, Rabi thinks, immediately apparent that he has _no_ idea what the fuck he’s doing. He’s also pretty sure Ajay doesn’t care, which is good for his ego if nothing else. He wasn’t kidding when he’d told Ajay he was shooting for runner-up status.

Well, okay, maybe he was kidding a little. The part where he wanted to be _good_ at sucking Ajay off, that part he wasn’t kidding about at all.

Given Ajay’s recent stint in his shower, Rabi expected him to taste mostly of soap. Instead, Ajay tastes achingly human. A little salty, a little bitter, warm the way good clean skin smells. It’s unexpected, and also kind of nice, albeit in a weird sort of way.

Less nice is Rabi’s gag reflex, which he discovers when he gets a little overenthusiastic and spends several mortified seconds trying to muffle his coughing against Ajay’s hip.

“Sorry,” he croaks. Wonders vaguely if Ajay wants him to keep going, or if he should just cut his losses now and throw himself off a bell tower.

Ajay just smiles down at him. Rumpled and sweaty and flushed, looking far more happy than he has any right to be. “It’s cool,” he says. Touches Rabi’s cheek and his jaw, palm rasping against the faint hint of stubble there. Something hot and tight squeezes in Rabi’s chest, so overwhelming he can’t breathe for a moment.

Then Ajay’s smile widens into a shit-eating grin and he adds, “You’re still the dick-sucking champion of my heart,” and the only proper response to _that_ is for Rabi to prove him the fuck right.

*

Ajay’s orgasm, when it comes, takes Rabi totally by surprise.

It’s not Ajay’s fault, not really. In retrospect, it’s pretty damn obvious he’d been trying to warn Rabi: tugging first on his shoulders, and then a little more desperately on his hair, and finally by arching taut under Rabi’s hands and gasping, “Wait, Rabi, I’m gonna-- oh fuck oh fuck oh _f-fuck--_ ”

And then things got messy.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Ajay says again. The fact that he’s laughing helplessly while he says it kinda ruins the apology, but Rabi supposes they’re even. It’s not like he’d given Ajay much in the way of warning.

Still. Rabi wipes at his face, grimacing. “Fuck, man,” he says plaintively, “you got it on my _chin_ ,” and Ajay starts laughing so hard he all but slides off the desk.

Rabi forgives him for it literally two seconds later, when Ajay grabs Rabi’s shoulders, yanks him out of the chair, and enthusiastically reacquaints himself with the serious business of kissing. Given where their mouths have been, Rabi’s faintly surprised that it’s hot as opposed to weird, or even weirdly hot, which he also would’ve been okay with. If Ajay keeps it up, it will quickly cease to matter that neither of them put their pants back on properly, or that the gritty concrete floor is _literally_ the worst place in the world for them to be making out.

He shivers when Ajay gently bites his lower lip and then pulls back just enough to grin at him. He looks so _happy_ , Rabi thinks, amazed. Really, genuinely happy. Like Ajay wanted this more than anything but never thought it was possible.

An answering grin tugs at Rabi’s lips and he reels Ajay back in, kissing him soundly until Ajay starts to make little noises of contentment deep in his throat.

“This is so wild,” Rabi mumbles against his mouth. “Fucking bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S, I can’t even believe it, man, my listeners are _never_ going to--”

Ajay jerks back so suddenly his head bangs against the desk. Rabi winces as his coffee cup rattles somewhere above them.

“Don’t,” Ajay says. His voice is much too loud, his earlier giddiness evaporated. “You can’t say anything.”

Rabi’s stomach plummets all the way through his spine and into the floor, where it probably leaves a sadly smoking crater. He scoots back, busies his now-empty hands with finally readjusting his shorts the way he should’ve at least five minutes ago.

His eyes are stinging. He really wishes he had his sunglasses right about now.

“Shit,” Ajay says. “Rabi, I didn’t...that came out wrong. I really like you.”

Rabi snorts. “‘I like you, _but…’_ , right?” He’s helpless to keep the bitterness from his voice. It doesn’t matter how many times he has this conversation: he always hopes the next one will be different, and it cuts just as deeply every single time. “That’s the part that comes next, Ghale. Get with the program.”

There’s a rustle of fabric and the clink of a belt buckle as Ajay gets his own clothes in order. His voice is quiet. “There isn’t a ‘but,’” he says. “I really do like you.”

Well, that’s a load of bullshit if Rabi’s ever heard one. He can practically _hear_ the “but” circling the edges of Ajay’s words, like a tiger lurking in the bushes near a well-traveled footpath. He opens his mouth to say as much, but Ajay beats him to it.

“It’s just...I, uh. I get nightmares sometimes?” Ajay says

It’s quite possibly the last thing Rabi expected him to say. He closes his mouth, risks glancing over to where Ajay’s still leaning back against Rabi’s desk. Ajay looks…

He looks _tired_ , far older than his twenty-something years. When he catches Rabi watching him, he offers a wan smile and drops his gaze to his own hands. “More than sometimes, actually. Seems like it’s most of the time, these days, and lately there’s one in particular that my brain’s really latched onto, where I’m driving along the road and Radio Free Kyrat just...goes dark.”

Rabi goes very still. A ball of ice seems to have replaced the empty hollow where his stomach was moments ago.

“Sometimes the propaganda broadcasts start back up, but mostly it’s just...silence. Where your voice should be.” Ajay still isn’t looking at him, and with no small measure of horror Rabi sees that his hands are shaking. “So I come straight here, right? But it never matters how fast I drive, _never_ , because it’s always too slow and I’m always too late, and when I get here you’re...they’ve--”

Rabi doesn’t want to be listening to this. He tells himself it’s because Ajay’s their hero -- THE hero, really, because Kyra knows they’ve needed one all these years -- and heroes are supposed to be immune to this sort of thing. Heroes don’t have nightmares. They certainly don’t dream about terrible things befalling people like Rabi, who has “cannon fodder NPC” written all over him and knows it.

But even as he tries to convince himself, he knows it has nothing to do with Ajay’s heroism and everything to do with his shaking hands and the ghastly steadiness in his voice, the way he can’t seem to look Rabi in the eye as he talks. It’s like he’s ashamed of having nightmares. Like he’s afraid Rabi will think less of him for it.

“Ajay--”

“I’m not _like_ you,” Ajay says. “I didn’t grow up with this, this...fight, this war, whatever the fuck you want to call it. It’s not a way of life for me. I’m...fuck, Rabi, I’m scared, all right? I’m scared _all the fucking time,_ and all I can think is that if they knew about this, if they knew about us, they’d--”

He scrubs his hands over his face. His voice is hoarse and angry and helpless. “They’d use it. They’d find you. They’d find you, and they’d _hurt_ you, and I...I’m really tired of bad things happening to people because of me. You’re one of the only good things in my life right now, okay? I can’t deal with losing that too.”

For the first time in a very long time, Rabi has absolutely no idea what to say. He can’t even think of _inappropriate_ things to say. The confession is too personal, too genuine, too raw. Nothing he could say would even remotely approach the magnitude of what Ajay’s told him, and he’s never been very good at talking about his feelings anyway, at least not in a serious way. Too easy to get hurt.

He tries to focus on the important bit. Ajay cares about him. Ajay cares about him a lot, so much so that he has nightmares about losing him.

He _cares_.

“That...that is so gay,” Rabi says, and immediately wants to kick himself in the face. He should never be allowed to say anything _ever_.

Ajay’s head snaps up, sheer disbelief written large in his expression. He says, “ _Dude_.”

“No, seriously,” Rabi says, cheerfully ignoring his brain’s increasingly desperate attempts to get him to shut up. “That is the gayest thing ever, and I just had your dick in my mouth. This is gayer than that, man. Gayer than a _dick_ in my _mouth_.”

“Oh my god.” To his utter shock, Ajay starts laughing weakly. “Shut up.”

“You shut up,” Rabi says, and then scoots across the floor until he’s alongside Ajay. Ajay practically melts when Rabi slings an arm around his shoulders, tucking his forehead against the curve of Rabi’s neck like it was made to be there. Rabi’s chest tightens, and he exhales shakily.

“Sorry, man,” he says. His voice is a lot rougher than it was a moment ago. “I am really, really bad at this.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Ajay says. Absently snags one of Rabi’s hands. Their fingers fit together like puzzle pieces. “Like I’m one to talk, really.”

“You know it’s gonna be fine, right?” He rests his cheek against the top of Ajay’s head. “This gig isn’t without its risks, but I’ve been doing it a long time. Some tiny American nerd with a gun fetish blowing in here and fucking up Pagan’s party isn’t gonna change that.”

“I don’t even _like_ guns,” Ajay mutters.

“Okay, that is...that is so not my point. I’ll keep my trap shut about us being boyfriends or whatever, but the point is, your nightmares can fuck right off, all right? You’ve got enough shit on your plate to worry about without adding me to the list. I’ve got a good thing going here, Ajay. It’ll be fine.”

Ajay’s silence takes on a distinctly thoughtful quality. He says, slowly, “Boyfriends, huh?”

“Oh, fuck off. You know what I mean!”

“I’m sorry, what was it you said earlier?” Ajay starts snickering outright, because he’s a _dick._ “Something along the lines of ‘no homo’, I believe?”

“You,” Rabi says, “are an asshole.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wants to be my boyfriend,” Ajay says. He kisses Rabi’s clavicle through the fabric of his t-shirt. Rabi can’t see his face, but the grin is more than evident in his voice. “I think that says a lot more about you than it does me.”

He has not, Rabi can’t help but notice, said anything to the effect of, “We are definitely not boyfriends and also you’re a loser who needs to get out more.” What he _is_ doing is leaning into Rabi like he’s the most comfortable pillow in the world, and he’s still holding Rabi’s hand. “So I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume it’s cool for me to stay the night.”

 _You should never sleep anywhere else_ , Rabi thinks, and says, “Uh, yeah, I guess.” His voice cracks, because of course it does.

“Sweet.” Ajay pulls back just far enough to shoot Rabi a small, sly grin. “But I changed my mind about crashing on the floor. Your bed’s big enough for two, right?”

“Holy shit, _yes_ ,” Rabi breathes, and Ajay lights up like the sun. He fists his hands in Rabi’s shirt and drags him in for a thorough and incredibly enthusiastic kiss; after a while, things get messy again. The camp shower gets used for the second time that day, and eventually, they make it to the bed.

It isn’t remotely big enough, but...they’ll make it work.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](http://pathopharmacology.tumblr.com/)! Come by and say hi.


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